


The Youth of the Heart

by Persiflager



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 23:18:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=119669023#t119669023">this prompt</a> on the kinkmeme:  Sherlock "helps" John go through his boxes of stuff and comes across a photo album from his uni days. Mike's in a few of the photos. </p>
<p>"He was in love with you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Youth of the Heart

“He was in love with you.”

John pulled his head out of a cardboard box. “Sorry, what?”

They were in the rafters of 221 Baker Street, surrounded by dust and startled spiders. John, in a fit of spring madness, had declared that morning that he was finally going to sort out the ancient boxes that he’d stored at Harry’s while he was serving then shoved straight up in the attic and forgotten about when he moved into Baker Street. After a week of no cases and a temporary (and entirely unjustified) ban from Bart’s morgue Sherlock had graciously offered to help, which was why he was now sitting cross-legged on rough planking with cobwebs in his hair.

“Mike Stamford,” said Sherlock patiently. “He was in love with you. Here.” He selected the relevant photo from the array he had spread out in front of him – an excellent find, any man who once did _that_ with a pair of kidneys had no grounds for complaining about Sherlock’s refrigerator practices – and passed it across to John.

Wiping a hand on his t-shirt, John took the picture and angled it under the single bare bulb. “Oh, I remember this one,” he said, sounding pleased. “It was just after our final exams. What were you saying about Mike?”

“He was in love with you,” said Sherlock for the third time. Was John going deaf? Sherlock made a mental note to play a range of irritating tones later and see which ones John responded to.

John snorted. “He was _not_.”

“It’s perfectly clear from the-“

“Sherlock, trust me. Mike absolutely, definitely wasn’t in love with me. We were just friends, that’s all.”

Denial – interesting. Because John didn’t want it to be true, or because he did? Sherlock looked at the way John’s gaze lingered on the picture – definitely the latter. 

“If you say so.” Sherlock watched as John carefully put the photo to one side before plunging determinedly back into the box. Two hours at most until his curiosity got the better of him.

…

John finally cracked after lunch (one hour and fifty-five minutes). They had stopped the excavations to come down for sandwiches and were now flicking through the newspapers in companionable silence.

“What made you think that about Mike?”

“Hm?” Sherlock was engrossed in an article on colony collapse disorder and it took him a moment to work out what John was talking about.

“Earlier.” John pushed the photo across the table to Sherlock. “You said that Mike was in love with me.” 

The grainy colour photo showed a much younger John and Mike sitting outside in a pub garden, clearly intoxicated. John (skinny and fresh-faced) had slung one arm around Mike’s shoulder and was beaming at the camera, while Mike (broad-shouldered with untidy, wavy, light-brown hair) was looking at John.

Sherlock reached for a pencil and spun it round so that he could tap the blunt end against the shiny surface of the photo. “Proximity, body language and pupil dilation.” 

John pushed back his chair and walked round the table to look over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Despite the bright light, his eyes are darker than normal,” he continued. “Your torso is angled towards the camera but he’s leaning into you – look at his knees and shoulders. He wants to be closer. One hand’s resting on your thigh as if for balance but based on that position and his centre of gravity it can’t have been necessary. He hasn’t put any weight on it, though, so I suspect it was removed quickly – possibly before you even noticed.”

“I noticed,” said John. “I remember. So, he was attracted to me.”

Sherlock shook his head. “More than that.” He pointed at Mike’s face. “Look at his line of sight – he’s looking at your eyes, not your lips, which is a more likely indicator of romantic interest. He’s looking at you fully and wasn’t distracted by the camera, so it’s more than a fleeting fancy. Look at the curve at the corner of his lips – he’s happy, but he’s not smiling openly. He kept this secret. Given that the two of you had been close friends for - what, two years at this point?”

“Year and a half,” said John quietly.

“A year and a half, then. It would have been there from the start - Mike’s a great believer in first impressions, takes to people straight away if he likes them. Every relationship that he’s had since I’ve known him has started with an intense initial attraction. Given that the two of you were never romantically involved, his feelings must have been strong to last that long without reciprocation. So, love.”

John didn’t respond immediately. 

“Did I miss anything?” said Sherlock, twisting round to look up at John. 

“No,” said John quietly. “No, that was very ... enlightening. Thank you.” He picked up the photo, took it upstairs to his room, and didn’t come out for two hours and twenty minutes.

…

13 February 2002

One of John’s housemates, newly single and not at all happy about it, declares Sunday Anti-Valentine’s Day and drags them all to the pub. Other people join them as the afternoon goes on and eventually John finds himself squeezed on a bench next to a quiet, soft-faced man he vaguely recognises from his biochemistry course.

“Hi, I’m John,” says John as he holds out a hand. He’s mildly tipsy - that pleasant level of drunk that comes from drinking slowly over several hours - and feels very well-inclined towards the rest of the world.

The man smiles. “Mike,” he says back, shaking John’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. Are you with this disreputable lot?”

John looks around at the laughing faces of his friends. “Never seen them before in my life. So, are you going to be bitter and single like the rest of us tomorrow?”

Mike smiles at the table and takes a big swallow of his beer. “I prefer to think of it as ‘open to opportunity’.” 

John grins. “That’s a good philosophy.” He’s about to say something else when one of his housemates leans across the table.

“Mike, mate,” says Phil, slurring a little. “You’re barking up the wrong tree there. John’s as straight as they come.”

There’s a sudden tension next to him and it takes John a moment to parse - _oh_.

Mike puts his drink down. John’s suddenly aware that he’s a big bloke doing a very good impression of a small one. “Some of us are capable of having a conversation with someone without trying to stick our prick in them.”

Phil blinks at him and holds his hands out in placation. “Sorry mate. I didn’t mean …” 

There’s an awkward pause and John racks his brain for a way to fix it. “To be fair,” he says to Mike, “if Phil talked to girls for more than five minutes he’d never get laid. Personality like his, there’s a very narrow window of opportunity to pull before they realise he’s a cock.”

Phil nods. “S’true. I have to strike while the pussy’s hot. I mean wet.”

John pulls a face and can see Mike wincing out of the corner of his eye. “And on that lovely note, I’m going to the bar. Mike, what are you having?”

Mike looks at him for a moment with mischief in his eyes. “I’ll suppress my natural instinct for pink cocktails and have a pint of bitter, if you don’t mind.”

John comes back ten minutes later carrying three pints of bitter, each with a cocktail umbrella perched on top, and Mike laughs so hard people stare from the other side of the room.

…

Sherlock took advantage of John’s pre-occupation to run one of the messier experiments he’d been planning. By the time John re-emerged, several bones were marinating in the sink and the kitchen table had been lost under a sea of beakers.

John tutted with mild disapproval and put the kettle on. 

“Do you know if Mike’s seeing anyone?” he asked casually as he made the tea.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope at John’s innocent, jumper-clad back. “John,” he said slowly. “Mike’s very useful to me.”

John plonked one mug down by Sherlock’s elbow. “Oh, that’s charming, that is.” He sat down in the other chair and frowned. “Do you really have so little faith in your best friend?”

Sherlock reviewed the evidence. “Your track record with relationships is … not good.”

“Yes, well, this is different.”

“Why?”

“It just is, alright?” John stared down at his mug. “I’m not – this isn’t just a whim. I really want to know.” 

Sherlock looked at him and sighed. Mycroft’s various attempts to manipulate him via guilt, bribery, threats, challenges and appeals to reason were nothing compared to that look on John’s face. It was _intensely_ irritating. “His civil partnership ended two years ago, there hasn’t been anyone serious since then and he wasn’t seeing anyone even casually when I last saw him three weeks ago.”

John nodded. “Thank you.”

Sherlock shrugged and resigned himself to the imminent prospect of seeing Mike Stamford’s face over breakfast.

…

John, Mike and Phil end up sharing a horrible flat in their final year. By some miracle Phil has managed to get a girlfriend so he spends most weekends at hers, leaving John and Mike to share their studying, drinking and epic hangovers.

“Good night?” asks Mike one Sunday morning as John slinks into the flat feeling like death.

“After we left you at the club we went back to hers, where she threw up on me and I slept on the floor,” says John with a groan. “I think the romance is dead.” He sits down on the sofa and closes his eyes. Five minutes later the sofa cushions shift as Mike sits down next to him.

John opens his eyes to see a mug of steaming hot coffee and a packet of paracetamol in front of him. “Oh, mate, I love you,” he says with a sigh. “Anyway, how was your night? Did you manage to get Chris on the dance-floor in the end?” Mike’s boyfriend of the past six months is a dour phD student from Imperial who seems to be allergic to having fun. He doesn’t like John.

Mike fiddles with his mug, turning it round on the coffee table before responding. “We broke up.”

“Oh,” says John, surprised. Even if Chris clearly isn’t good enough for Mike, who’s clever and fun and the kindest person John knows, they’d seemed happy together. “Shit, I’m sorry. What happened?”

“His ex-girlfriend happened, apparently. He said that he was confused. I said that I wasn’t, and I broke it off.”

John sighs. “He’s an idiot, then. Do you want me to punch him? I’d quite like to punch him.”

“Ta, but no,” says Mike with a small smile. “I don’t think violence is the answer.”

“Well, if you figure out what is, let me know. I can rule out chatting people up based on the number of tequila shots they can drink, if that helps.”

Mike sips his coffee. “No more bisexuals, I think,” he says with only a trace of bitterness. “It always ends the same way, and I’m tired of it.”

John clinks his mug against Mike’s. “Well, cheers to that,” he says, and gives Mike a consoling pat on the arm before retreating to his room. 

He lies down on his bed, throws an arm over his face and concentrates on once again pushing the words ‘by the way, I’m curious about sex with men and you’re quite fit, fancy a shag?’ firmly to the back of his mind. So what if this is the first time they’ve both been single since moving in together? Mike’s made it clear what he’s looking for and John values their friendship too highly to ask him to settle for less.

(They kiss occasionally, he thinks, when they’re drunk. But he can’t remember for certain in the morning and Mike never says anything.)

…

Two weeks later and John _still_ hadn’t propositioned Mike. They’d been out for drinks four times, eight times as often as normal, but John appeared to have been afflicted by an uncharacteristic sense of shyness. He checked his phone constantly, stared off into thin air at odd moments, and completely dismissed all of Sherlock’s helpful suggestions (‘look, I know you mean well, but you are the last person who should be giving anyone relationship advice. And no, just because Mike works in a teaching hospital doesn’t mean he’d consider a corpse to be a romantic present’).

Sherlock had had enough. He went to Bart’s on a rainy Tuesday afternoon and tracked Mike down to an empty classroom.

“Sherlock!” said Mike, putting his jacket on. “You just caught me. What can I do for you?”

“John is single, healthy, and as psychologically stable as is reasonable to expect in a man of his age and experiences,” said Sherlock. “We are not, nor have we ever been, romantically or sexually involved.”

“Ok,” said Mike, blinking.

“Although he is primarily attracted to women, he has had several homosexual relationships in the past and is unconflicted about his bisexuality. Realistically, he’s a poor prospect for a romantic relationship, but then so are you. And so is everyone else, for that matter.”

“Right.” Mike looked stunned. “Sherlock, I don’t mean to be rude but what on Earth are you talking about?”

Sherlock made a frustrated noise. “I don’t know what obstacles, real or imagined, prevented the two of you from resolving this when you were younger but I can assure you that there are none now.” 

When no further objections were forthcoming, Sherlock turned on his heel and left, feeling a new degree of sympathy with the keepers of giant pandas.

…

After graduation Mike moves to Manchester and John stays in London. He pulls the words back out, dusts them off, and gives them to a tall ginger man he meets on the Blackheath rugby team. His curiosity (as well as the rest of him) is more than satisfied over the next few weeks until the relationship runs its course with no hard feelings on either side. John feels a new sense of comfort with himself and wonders why he waited so long.

He goes up to visit Mike one weekend, condoms optimistically packed in his bag, and finds himself being introduced to Mike’s brand-new boyfriend. Dan’s handsome and intelligent and John hates him on sight, though he does his best to be polite. 

John doesn’t go up to visit again.

The next two years pass in a blur of work with only the occasional email and text between them. He organises a night out before his deployment and agonises over the ending of the text he sends to Mike. In the end he settles on _Bring Dan if you like. I’d really like to see you before I leave._.

Mike doesn’t come. He sends an apologetic email with a crap excuse days later, which John reads and deletes without responding, and he doesn’t hear from Mike again until he’s limping through Russell Square Gardens.

…

Mike sat at the kitchen table in 221B Baker Street, wearing yesterday’s clothes and a stupid smile, and watched John cook breakfast.

That wasn’t something he’d ever expected to see again; then again he’d also thought his days of staying up half the night shagging were behind him.

On the whole, Mike thought that he could cope with being wrong.

John glanced up and grinned at him and Mike’s heart raced as if he was twenty-three and still believed in love at first sight. Over a decade since he’d first seen it and that smile hadn’t changed at all - dare and promise and conspiracy all in one. He was about to say something utterly, unforgivably foolish when there was the sound of the front door being unlocked.

“Good morning.” Sherlock strode into the kitchen with all the healthy colour and self-satisfaction of a man who’d just been for an early-morning run. “Just met a cat burglar under Vauxhall arches. Interesting man. I’ll have my eggs scrambled.”

“Morning,” said John cheerfully. “There’s tea in the pot.”

Sherlock poured himself a cup and sat down at the table. “Ah, Mike,” he said with an air of mild surprise, as if they’d just encountered each other in the canteen. “I need to borrow a wheelchair.”

“Morning, Sherlock,” said Mike, turning round to face Sherlock and beaming at him.

“Are you going into Bart’s this morning? We can share a cab.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Mike could see John reaching up to get plates out of a cupboard, his t-shirt riding up as he did so.

“I think I’ll be late in,” he said thoughtfully, and dug in his trouser pocket. “Here, take my pass. Sign out whatever you need.”

Sherlock looked between the two of them, rolled his eyes, and plucked the pass out of Mike’s outstretched hand. As he settled into reading the papers, Mike turned back round to find John giving him a considering look, spatula still in hand.

Mike winked, and John – John _bloody_ Watson – honest-to-god blushed.


End file.
